Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [73]
Eli and I embraced each other, smiling and greeting each other familiarly. He was my old friend from way back, though we hadn’t hung out much since the troubled days of the old green Dodge. Since then, Eli had left the Amish and moved from Missouri to Daviess.
We chattered for a few minutes in our native Pennsylvania Dutch, and then I picked up my bags, and we walked out of the station. After packing my stuff in the trunk, all five or six of us piled into Eli’s old T-Bird, which crouched low, sagging under the heavy load.
Eli had lived in Daviess County for a couple of years, working construction. Rumor had it that he ran with a tough, wild crowd. He lived with his older brother in a little three-bedroom single-wide in the country, a few miles southwest of Montgomery, Indiana. Redneck city, but perfect for two brothers, complete with a spare bedroom for an old friend.
Soon enough, after dropping off Eli’s friends, we were there. Exhausted, I stumbled in, lugging my duffel bag. Eli showed me to my room, a tiny cubicle with four thin walls and a door, but as far as I was concerned it was a palace. More than sufficient. Luxurious even. I collapsed onto the bed, conked out in minutes, and slept solidly through the night.
The next day I awoke to a new life in a new land.
* * *
Daviess County. The land of my father’s blood. And my mother’s. The land that harbored in its soil the hidden saga of my family’s history. The land of my ancestors, where several generations had lived and grown and toiled and died. The importance of this didn’t really hit me on that first day. I was more focused on adapting to my new surroundings. My earthly belongings consisted of a duffel bag filled with mostly Amish clothes, and a little cash. That was it. I was twenty-four and pretty much broke. But that was the least of my problems.
Emotionally, I was exhausted. And tense and jittery from the stress of recent events. Not that I talked about it much, what had happened back there in Bloomfield. I mumbled a few brief details to Eli to fill him in. He’d heard some rumors floating out there on the family grapevine, but he claimed he never paid them much mind. Eli was too busy to worry much about me. And as it turned out, the stories that had traveled through Bloomfield’s gossip lines were actually true. Eli was running wild. Partying hard with a rough crowd.
I didn’t think much of it, one way or another. Eli was an adult. He could take care of himself. I had enough to deal with.
Those first days in Daviess were surreal and strange. I had left home three times before, but my last flight from Bloomfield was different. Always before, I had known in the back of my mind—even as I was leaving—that I would one day return, that somewhere down the road I would come back to the quiet pastoral life into which I had been born. Back to my birthright and the way of my fathers. To settle down, to be satisfied and content.
Not this time. This time, the future was blank. There was no returning to Bloomfield. Not after burning so many bridges. After breaking so many solemn promises—to the church at baptism, and later to Sarah. This time, it was so much more serious. I had left as a member of the church. And in the code of Amish discipline, there would be only one reaction to my choices and my bold and wicked deeds.
Excommunication.
They would cast me out. Consign my soul to Satan and all his works.
There are a lot of ex-Amish out there who claim it’s no big deal to be excommunicated. That excommunication is so legalistic. So, well, quaint. And vicious. And biblically excommunication bears no weight. At least that’s what they claim. But I can guarantee that even if they don’t